


Konyyl and Azdaja go to Pale Fortress

by FluffyLordoftheDead12



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BBW, Belly Kink, F/M, GTS, Muscle, Tentacles, Vore, Weight Gain, burp - Freeform, date
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 13,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyLordoftheDead12/pseuds/FluffyLordoftheDead12
Summary: Azdaja treats his matesprit to an all-you-can eat buffet. Konyyl stuffs herself and adds a few other trolls and random objects to the menu. Then they go back home for some feeder-feedee sex. (In this AU, female trolls are mini-giantesses. )Written for my dear buddy, [user]FoeHammer[/user].
Relationships: Azdaja Knelax & Konyyl Okimaw
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

“You should be the one taking me out on a date!” Azdaja whined. 

Konyll snorted. “Big talk from a mustard-blood nerd.”

Azdaja grumbled. “I’m not a nerd, I’m an expert and a connoisseur.”

Konyll gave him a friendly hip-check, which knocked him over. Granted, her hips barely stood out compared to her near-spherical gut. 

Azdaja gasped and struggled to his feet, scurrying forward before the lean, gangly jade-blooded female behind him shoved him out of line or tread on him. He looked at the chrome surface of the buffet wall to fix his inadequately distressed hair. 

Konyll’s stomach growled loud enough that Azdaja felt it in his teeth and horns. She was looking at the plump young man in front of her with a dangerously speculative expression. 

“Congealed plant nectar, remember we’re here for the Buffet, right? You can wait a few minutes? I’m sure the fish-cum and medium-rare hoofbeast flank is worth the wait. You don’t want to do anything you might regret later?” He reached up and patted the soft sides of her belly while gathering some psionic energy in case he needed to muzzle her again. 

“Welcome to Pale Fortress, female roughage is off in the blue aisle, soup of the day is Mariana Trench Onion Soup. No butting in line, if you eat the plates you have to pay extra, you know the drill,” said the grumpy long-horned woman almost bursting through her uniform with biceps larger than Konyll’s head and thighs like support pillars. 

Azdaja handed over the coins and muttered something about customer service, but he muttered low enough that she could easily ignore it. 

He scoped out seats, knowing better than to risk getting her stuck in a booth, and picked out a table equidistant to the “chick food” selection and the frozen dairy dessert station. They both dropped their bags on the seats to signal they were taken, and Azdaja made a bee-line for the sweet stuff. “Life is uncertain, eat dessert first.”

He weighed out the perfect blend of semi-sweet flavors, topping them with vanilla chips, land-salt caramel, and crystalized cactus. For Konyll’s bowl, well, he piled up a dozen scoops of vanilla, drowned it in molten rich sauce, and shook on some chopped nuts and tiny fruit in a half-hearted attempt to introduce some sophistication to her undiscriminating palette.

For somebody so bulky, Konyll could move pretty fast. She’d piled one plate six hands deep with overlapping, dripping grubsteaks and the other with pyramid of seasoned starchroots. She rubbed her hands together, fangs bared, and let out the particular type of small, sour burp generated by a stomach that spent too long churning with nothing substantial inside it. A solid meter of drool trailed down her relaxed fit short-sleeved shirt. 

By the time Azdaja had his first mouthful of sweets, his matesprit had swallowed three good-sized roots without chewing. “You’re eating dessert first?” She shoved half a grubsteak into her mouth, chewed it a bit, and with her cheeks still bulging, said “that’s disgusting.”

“That’s not really funny anymore,” Azdaja, shaking out a napkin to wipe the chunks of bugflesh his partner had sprayed on his face. 

Konyll swallowed and stuck out her tongue at him. “Come on, you know you love it.”

Azdaja resumed eating his cold sweet food, because for all his intellectual gifts, well, the statement had the sting of irrefutable truth. 

Instead of bothering with utensils, Konyll just leaned down, spreading her gut out over the table while she lined up her mouth with the highest part of the food-piles and either yanked it with her tongue or pushed it straight into her face. In the minutes it took her to get halfway through the food and for him to finish one scoop of frozen dairy, he pulled back his chair and went to fetch her more plates, knowing that she would be through this and the dessert by the time he returned.


	2. Chapter 2

This time, Azdaja made sure to pile up Konyll’s plate before grabbing anything for himself. There was barely any good seafood at this place anyway. He used big, unshelled crustaceans to construct support walls on the plate, holding in the slippery gunfish steaks, deep-sea snake heads, marinated sea popes, seaweed-grain-fish cylinders, and of course, plenty of salty fish-cum. He enhanced this by using aquatic hoofbeast limbs as buttresses to give the structure stability, fixing them into place with tiny prods of psionic energy to keep his fingers clean. 

He ladled a conservative pour of grubsauce over the whole arrangement, then squeezed in sour fruit juice and shook on lots of land salt and a few shakes of locally slave-harvested blue pepper. That should provide enough of a kick to contrast the fishy taste and distract from the more rubbery textures.

For his own distinguished tastes, the broiled red bitey-thing and the least-overcooked heat-asphyxiated salmon slices were the only items here worth checking out, with a little blue pepper and herbed oil. Really, this kind of place focused on quantity over quality. Then again, it was cheaper than hiring a hunter that did delivery, and they’d ate at that new Quick Casual artisanal grubloaf place last time. 

He was about to pick up something from the next section when he heard a very loud, very porcelain crunching noise. Azdaja sighed and power-walked back to the table, keeping just the right speed for everyone to see the badass way his coat flapped. 

“Konyll, babe, what happened to the plates?”

Konyll looked around, feigning innocence. She was never any good at that. “What AUUWRP plates?” she asked, chunks of pottery caught in her fangs, pottery dust smeared on her shirt and fingers. Her stomach churned and she let out a louder burp, this one accompanied by a plate shard. 

“The plates that I put your food on, which you weren’t supposed to eat, because they charge extra for that,” Azdaja said emotionlessly. 

“Oh. Um, those plates? I’m not sure. Maybe somebody stole them while I was eating.” Her tummy gave another traitorous churn. The heap of tubers and meat wasn’t enough to seriously set off her digestive juices, but something really rich in “roughage” tended to require a little more work to process.

Azdaja sighed and set down the seafood in front of her, then set his as far from her side of the table as he could. “Please try not to eat my seafood, or the plate it’s on, or any other plates. I’m going to come back really soon with more food, Okay? Just try to be—”

Konyll was already crunching up crustaceans, shell and all. He decided that his time would be better spent loading up plates with as much stuff as he could fit, regardless of edibility, to keep her from incurring damage fees to the tables or starting a fight with another female customer.


	3. Chapter 3

This time, Azdaja ran straight to the chick “food”. He grabbed one of the wheelbarrows provided, grunting with distaste at this manual labor (the things I do for that woman), but carried on. 

He had no idea whether a diesel engine tasted better than a petrol engine, so he piled on one of each. He grabbed a twisted street sign, some old broken shell phones and game grubs, and then the slightly burnt remains of a dead bush. There was also a generous pile of empty exoskeletons, bones, and hooves. He dumped a ladle of grubsauce and squirted some spicy honey on, then booked it back to the table, his coattails flapping in a most unbecoming manner. 

Konyll froze with a licked-clean plate halfway to her open mouth. Her shirt had ridden up by at least a hand’s breath, exposing the pale grey skin that his lips had run over, his hands had fondled, and his tentacle had ground against. He felt some slight squirming down south. The night was going well, then. 

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Konyll said. 

“Oh yeah? What, pray tell, is it, then?”

Konyll began sweating. “It’s, um, it’s a legitimate excuse.”

Konyll levitated the plate down to the table, then emptied the wheelbarrow onto it. “Here. Try to hold down the fort until I get you some decent food.”

“Aw man, this is great!” Konyll said, her eyes lighting up. “I love UUUURRP diesel engines with hot honey!” 

The blast from her burp disarranged Azdaja’s hair, and not in the way he liked it to be disarranged, as well as smelling like rotting fish. Sometimes, she got on his nerves so much, with her impatience and impulsivity and mindless eagerness to charge in with no respect for his plans or willingness to pay attention or think for five seconds, well, he’d considered telling her she was his kismesis instead of his matesprit. Sure, she was cute, built, wonderfully aggressive, and extra “thicc”, but there was always...

She picked him up with her arm, kissed him in between bites, and gave him a tight hug. “I’ll try babe.”

Never mind. He headed back to fetch her some real food while she crunched up the street sign.


	4. Chapter 4

This time, Azdaja loaded up his matesprit’s platter with deep-fried things. He started with the multipedes, but their long bodies were too slippery to easily scoop in. The spicy tinkerbull wings fared a lot better, and stacked easily with their angular forms. Of course there were lots of comfort foods that even a classy troll like him could enjoy, like the popcorn spleenfowl and the blossomed onions, but he wanted to get a bit more backlog for Konyll to chew through before attending to his own meager appetites. 

Hopblood-battered curd sticks were an old favorite of Konyll’s, so he made sure to pile up an entire plate with an elegant tower structure made out of them, half as tall as he was. 

He galivanted back to his matesprit’s table, and was pleased to see her still chewing on one of the greasy engine blocks. The churns and gurgles of her protesting stomach had become loud enough to almost overpower the crunch and scream of chewed-up steel. He paused to wipe a bit of diesel-soaked gristle from her left horn. She didn’t reply, aside from licking her lips and almost knowing him over with a belch that smelled like irradiated dead parasites. Her gut had pushed the table a little farther back from the chair by now, and he could see faint impressions as her stomach muscles worked through the slurry of heterogeneous mostly-organic matter. 

It pleased him to see that her empty plates were still there, and she hadn’t even touched his food. That meant he must be really keeping up with her appetite. Either that, or she’d developed the slightest inkling of what “delayed gratification” meant. 

He picked himself a platter of popcorn cluckbeast with a little hot honey drizzled on it, balancing the junk food out with a generous selection of diced melon, blue grapes, and pickled purple-roots. He also filled out a cornucopia’s worth of assorted bush-nuts and tree-fruit for Konyll. She might not love the stuff, but her digestive track would thank her later for the prudent addition, and she didn’t dislike anything enough to just not eat it when he served it to her. 

Azdaja strode back, plopped her plate down in front of her, and began gently exploring his assemblage of foodstuffs while Konyll put on a sweet, gluttonous display.

It wasn’t just the gnashing of her oversized fangs as she shredded through bugflesh, plant tissue, and low-quality rusted metal. It was the way she stretched her jaw to perfectly fit around whatever strangely-shaped mash-up of objects she decided needed to be crammed in her ravenous maw all at once and the distressing way her throat bulged as she powered through any pain sensations or gag reflexes to force it down. 

With another swallow, Konyll’s shirt rod up right to the equator of her swollen gut, and it took up more than a few handspans of the table. Her pale grey midsection churned and glugged like a poorly maintained aquarium. 

When Konyll stared at him, he realized that he’d had the same piece of fish halfway to his mouth for the past five minutes. She waggled her eyebrows and grinned super wide, grubsauce and motor oil smeared around her mouth, stringy bits of gristle and vegetable hanging from her fangs. 

Konyll grabbed his free hand and pressed it against her bloated midsection. He felt the throbbing and churning through it, the vibrations of digestion shuddering down his arm. There was an occaisional bump as some large, hard-to-break-down object or tight air bubble brushed against the sides before her seething muscles forced it back into the peptic maelstrom. 

Konyll looked down at him, and he knew she could tell how much his tentacle was thrashing around and enjoying the rush of power it gave her. Her arm muscles pumped like panicked pythons as she heaved up the entire plate of fried food with one arm, partially detached her jaw, and tipped it all in. Bits of food fell around her face and bounced on the floor but she caught most of the stray morsels with her agile tongue. Her cheeks bulged bigger than her head as her lips struggled to close around the mass. She swallowed part of it, and for a moment, as the mass crunched and backed up around her expanded throat, he was actually afraid she might choke. Then her throat chords tightened and the bulk shot down into her stomach with a shuddering slam that he felt down to his ankles. He actually saw her shirt slip up another handspan and the globe of dusty flesh conquer more table. He used his free hand to absently ingest a bit of popcorn cluckbeast, now aware that he’d have to finish up his own food quickly or it would be knocked to the floor by his matesprit’s girth. 

Azdaja grabbed his spoon and gulped down the frozen sweestuff as rapidly as he could without courting brainfreeze. Anyway, he should have finished it sooner, before it started melting. He just hated looking so...un-chill about it. Eating this face risked getting a smudge on his cheeks or, horror of horrors, a stain on his jacket!

Azdaja dabbed furiously with his napkin and washed down the sugary stuff with some angry water. He still felt the increasing activity in Konyll’s digestive track, and that gut continued swelling, pressing back against his hand. As he opened his mouth for a bite of fruit, a small burp escaped his mouth. He flushed dirty yellow and hoped that nobody around had noticed. 

Konyll tilted her head and flexed her cantaloupe-sized biceps. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes that a dangerously cloudy look.

She had been Challenged.

“That was an accident. I didn’t—“Azdaja began.

Konyll silenced him with a resounding belch, but this time he put up a low-level telekinetic field in time to protect his meticulously messy hair. 

This time Konyll blushed army green. “Sorry, can I get a do-over?”

Azdaja’s affirmative response was drowned out by the churn and gurgle of her mighty innards. It sounded a bit like a cluckbeast fighting against death by suffocation inside a giant vat of mint pudding, and a bit like a dangerously bit of plumbing that is just about to embed itself in the wall and soak everything in the room. 

Azdaja strengthened the telekinetic field around his hair. Konyll wrinkled her brow, then used her considerable arm muscles to lift up the even more considerable mass of her distended abdomen, jiggling and shaking it. The violent gurgling increased.

Azdaja’s tentacle was thrashing so hard against his pant leg it almost hurt. Something similar was probably going on inside Konyll’s pants. She lifted up a finger, grinned with her great, big, stupid grin, and thumped her powerful fist on the dead-center of her girth. 

The rattling glassware began before the sound actually registered in his brain. The vibration grew up from Konyll’s middle, reached through the chair and the table and shuddered across the floor, before finally registering as an audible noise with the force of a leaf-blower.

It wasn’t a “burp”, and “belch” was also too mild a description. As the fumes of digestive juices scoured his face and he dug his claws into the table to keep from being knocked over, he had a vague idea that this might be what it felt like to witness and undersea volcano. 

Konyll smacked her lips and leered at Azdaja. “How about that, huh? Got anything that can match it?”

Azdaja shook his head.

“Man, now that I’ve freed up some room I feel REALLY hungry!” Konyll said, through a mouthful of spicy wings, not bothering to spit out the bones.


	5. Chapter 5

Konyll seemed to be in an unofficial competition with the other female trolls here. Even the most voracious of them had given in after the seventeenth high-stacked plate, but his Konyll was still going strong.

Of course, he’d finished eating long ago, and returned his plates to the washbins before his partner took it into her head to accidentally crunch them up. 

Anyway, there wasn’t enough room for any of his food, even if he’d wanted more of these slops. Her slate-colored paunch had taken over the entire table. He worked himself into an even greater frenzy of sexual excitement by leaning his head against it, breathing on her swollen mass and listening to the washing-machine-with-sneakers-in-it frenzy of audible digestion. He’d dragged over a second table to accommodate her platters, although she’d started just balancing the trays on the upper part of her belly. 

“I’m gonna EUURRRAWP be done with this soon, babe,” Konyll said, in between huge rending bites of a whole raw side of hoofbeast meat. 

Azdaja didn’t need any more reminding. He hurried over to the line for meats and cheeses, figuring the tree trunks and metal she’d consumed would provide enough roughage to make sure she didn’t encounter serious difficulties in the “final phase” of food processing. 

Sadly, there was another man in his way, and he was of two minds about what to put on his platter. Azdaja could understand the dilemma, as somebody who appreciated the difference between cluckbeast and spleenfowl, or different varieties of processed milk, but time was of the essence. If Konyll started eating the table, he’d be in real financial trouble, and that might mean they’d have to take the commission for that obnoxiously passive-aggressive, holier-than-thou, victim-complex rustblood to keep up with expenses. (After all, organic hair gel and tailored suits didn’t come cheap.) 

The man hovered his hand over the indigo cheese and the badda cheese, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. He turned back to look at Azdaja. 

“Oh, sorry my dear, have I been holding up the line and taking too long?”

Before Azdaja could even answer, the narrow-horned troll slapped him in the face. “Don’t subject your betters to impertinence, you low-born oaf! Frankly, I don’t like your attitude, and this woe-is-me victim complex isn’t doing you any favors. Now leave me in peace!”

Azdaja bit his lip. He was, technically, low-born after all, and this attitude suggested a very high ruling caste, but he hadn’t even said anything to provoke the response! It wasn’t his fault if he radiated an aura of don’t-fuck-with-me strength and quiet dignity in a world of domesticated animals. And “oaf”? Really? He tried to make allowances for fellow connoisseurs of the finer things in life, but that was an insult he couldn’t tolerate. He might be an arrogant bastard, a dandy, a killer, a braggart, but he wasn’t an “oaf”! If he took it into his head to murder somebody, he’d make it elegant and stylish, something the ghost could brag about at a rust-blood séance, with long, slim blades, precision-hit telekinetic energy, and the most esoteric of poisons. He’d squeeze the critical blood vessel at just the right time to deprive a nervous system of oxygen, or stab every single vital organ at once, or offer somebody a drink that they’d smack out of his hand, only to realize that the real poison was in the fumes wafting up at their feet. He never just beat somebody into submission, bashed a head in, or ripped off an arm and slapped the offending party with the wet end! That was more Konyll’s style. 

Grumbling and seething, Azdaja made his way over to the fried food line and piled up a plate with one of everything. He did the same at the fruit and vegetable line, the dessert line, the random crap line, the sea-food line, the underdwelling insects line, and basically every available space except the meats and milk-products selection where this high-born stranger was taking his sweet time. 

The man was still hovering and waiting. Every now and then he seemed about to finish putting things on his plate, and he’d glance back at Azdaja, smile, and deliberately back up.

Azdaja kept his cool and breathed slowly. In a straight fight, this noble could yank out his pancreas and force-feed it to him. Anyway, abuse and denigration was an inherent right of the high-born. He’d just have to grin and bear it. 

For a while, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

Konyll stroked her belly, slowly and seductively. Just under the table, the crotch of her pants bulged as her tentacle writhed against its imprisonment. He tugged on his collar and tried to get a little breeze to dry the sweat pooling in his expensive shirt. 

The gentle self-administered massaging had soothed her stomach noises to a low rumble, but as soon as she stopped, they increased in volume once more. It sounded like a bit like a distant freight train pushing through grubsauce-coated tracks, a bit like an industrial sink backing up under high pressure, and a bit like a massively-packed gut fighting a war of attrition against its multifarious, barely-edible, heterogenous contents while brewing up a monstrous amount of gastronomic gasses. 

She’d finished her side of hoofbeast and sucked the guts out of her giant centipedes. Now she shook hot sauce and mustard on the remains before crunching them up. She must be pretty full, given that she stopped to chew each bone or segment and put them in her mouth one at a time. 

“We URP should really BREP do this more BUUWARP often,” Konyll said, spittle and gristle flying from her mouth as the more juicy gaseous eruptions cleared her throat.

Azdaja put his hands on the pallid globe to feel the gurgles better, even though they were deep enough to resonate in his horns and back teeth. The thudding churns made him want her more than ever. From that shit-eating grin she gave him, she must know exactly what he was thinking. They were going to prepare so many buckets of genetic contribution tonight, the Mother Grub was going to get indigestion. 

Konyll lifted him up with three fingers by the scruff of his collar, leaned in to his face, and almost deafened him with a resonating onion-belch. Then she planted a messy kiss right on his forehead, low enough so that it wouldn’t smear saliva on his hair. She dropped him back into his seat and smacked her tummy, causing an even greater rumble. 

“You know what I could really go for right Urp now? Some nice greasy slabs of cholerbear with melted red cheese.” She smacked her lips. Generally she was content to gulp down whatever slops he served her way, sometimes asking for “more meat” or “something spicy” or “sweet stuff”, but rarely did she have such a specific culinary request. Konyll measured food by quantity rather than quality. If she asked him for one single item, it meant she was craving, hard. 

Azdaja floated out of his chair and scurried to the meat and cheese line. He stacked up the hot slabs of meat, alternating with the thick, salty, red, porous cheeses made famous by their otherwise irrelevant hive of origin. When they didn’t seem to be dripping enough, he excited their molecules with a very subtle telekinetic blast, a technique at a level of sophistication that eluded most common trolls. He had piled up a second plate almost to his head when a well-manicured hand grabbed his face and slammed it into the pile of curdled dairy and hot meat.


	7. Chapter 7

Azdaja gasped for breath as he forced himself upright. He got slammed into the platter again for his troubles, aspirating a large glob of molten cheese and flailing in a most undignified manner. His hair. He had to protect his hair!

“You know,” the Aristocrat said, while he tried not to cough and sputter too loudly, “you could have been patient.”

Azdaja thought he’d been pretty patient, acknowledging the high-blood rights and all that, but his train of thought was uninterrupted by a faceplant into bubbling gravy. Azdaja closed off his facial orifaces with a weak telekinetic shield to stop any more foodstuffs from penetrating his body through a novel route of entry. Dear stars, this one was strong. He’d never met a cisgender male troll who might stand a chance against Konyll in an arm wrestling match, but right now he could feel the metal frame buckling under the pressure and important parts of his facial structure were making popping noises. He really hoped he didn’t need surgery. He hated the way scars looked. 

“You could have waited until I left the restaurant,” the stranger said, pulling Azdaja’s head up again, smearing his face against the sneeze guard, while buffing the nails of his free hand on his left horn. “You could have kept your head down and proved that you knew your place.” 

Azdaja wanted to open his mouth and complain that he had waited for it to be empty, that he hadn’t actually impacted the high-blood’s life in any noticeable way, but for once in his life, he kept his mouth shut. This individual was not in a reasonable frame of mind. It was a mark of high intelligence to use reasoned argument to crush one’s opponents, but it was an even higher mark of intelligence to recognize when the inherent irrationality of other people will prevent this from being achieved, no matter how incisive and poignant the rational argument. 

To that end, then, Azdaja focused on clearing his respiratory system and bracing for the next slam. 

“You think you can go wherever you want and do whatever you like, no matter what anyone thinks of it, you arrogant little twink? Well let me tell you, sir, that you are very, very wrong about that. You are incorrect. Possibly dead wrong.”

Azdaja raised both his open hands as a gesture of submission and defeat. Play it cool. He’d already almost lost his dignity today. 

He couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking away to check on his partner. Konyll was licking the plates clean, her shirt forced back dangerously close to her underboob area, churning innards audible even from here.

“So, this is advice, free, gratis, which I am giving you free of charge, without asking for money in return,” the noble said, dragging Azdaja by the very tender patch of skin on his lower neck. “If I show any interest in a section of a buffet, you and all your low-blood associates are to leave it well alone until I have completely finished my dining experience.”

He punctuated this statement by hoisting Azdaja, without visible effort, and then flinging him up towards the rotating fan. The shudder ran through Azdaja’s body has his horns embedded themselves in one of the fan’s blades.

“I’m feeling generous today, but please, don’t take my brief moment of pity as a sign of exploitable weakness.” He punctuated the statement by leaning back and hacking a big, wet gob onto Azdaja’s face, thick enough that it stuck there instead of falling back onto the noble-born cretin who expectorated it. 

The pain in his face was quite intense, but he took a moment to wipe off the goo with his sleeve, and pulled out a pocket mirror. Thankfully, his horns had been just long enough to keep his delicate coiffeur from being damaged any further by the ventilation equipment.

This fan was made from some sturdy, dense, material that he didn’t recognize, maybe poly-plastic or an alchemically treated wood. He whipped out bone comb and furiously worked to extricate the greasy meat chunks from his lovely hair, while also trying to be gentle enough he didn’t damage it or, stars forbid, uproot anything.

“Azdaja? Are you okay there?! What happened?”


	8. Chapter 8

“Don’t look at me!” Azdaja hissed, fumbling with a bottle of dry shampoo as he swung with increasing velocity. 

Konyll tried to avert her eyes, but it was a pretty riveting spectacle. His double row of horns granted him a firmer grip on the ceiling fan, but still, he wasn’t going to be in great shape for long. She decided, in a rare moment of critical insight and anticipatory problem-solving, that positioning herself to catch Azdaja during his inevitable fall was more important than preserving his dignity or humoring his vanity. After all, he’d already taken some serious facial damage and might need his brow re-broken to sort it out. 

His momentum somehow increased the force of the fan, and his legs now flailed at a roughly forty-five degree angle. He might have a big, long, fancy-words physics explanation for what was going on, but he was too busy trying to retouch his head-ornamentation to notice that.

Konyll tried to follow his movements, keeping her stance wide and sand-crustacean-walking under the fan blade, but eventually got dizzy and had trouble keeping up. 

Instead, Konyll decided to pick a spot, bunch up her legs, relying on thigh mucles wider than two fat men and ankle muscles bigger than a grown troll’s head to take her up, and her long strong arms to do the rest.

Her claws caught her matesprit. Her weight pulled him free. He ignored everything going on, still furiously managing his hair. 

Konyll sighed. Sometimes she wondered if this annoying dork might make a better kismesis. Then she wouldn’t have to wait for him to get dressed up every time they went out to eat or sit around listening to his long, boring “plans” that backfired and left her with the hard parts way too often. Then again, he was better than the male trolls who considered rubbing some destinkifying crystals in their armpits once a week too much effort for grooming and self-care, never mind setting foot inside an ablution trap. 

“Stupid high-blooded bonebulge-face,” Azdaja growled, not stopping to thank Konyll for rescuing him from a nasty fall. “Why couldn’t he just break my arm or stab me in the thigh or something like that? He had to go for the face AND mess with my friggin hair!” 

The slow, smoldering wall of protective fury reminded Konyyl why they weren’t in a kismesissitude. The more developed, long-term thinky lobes of her thought sponge told her that anything close to a violet-blood was dangerously powerful, had the right to push around the low-hatched, and the consequences of continuing a fight with such a troll would far outweight the benefits. 

Fortunately, Konyyl never listened to that part of her head, preferring to give her time and attention to her aggravation sponge. Her digestion bladder churned, already shifting some of the mixed former-food into her acid tubes. Drool seeped from her wide smile. 

There weren’t many trolls in the neighborhood at this time of night. Who would ever know what she did? If questioned, she’d just say he was strangled by another high-blood who chopped him up and flushed his body portions down the load gaper before calming down.

It had been far too long since she’d enjoyed the taste of “two-legged hoofbeast.”


	9. Chapter 9

Konyyl flung the still-fussing matesprit over her shoulder and stepped out into the back-alley behind the restaurant. Aside from a severely intoxicated rust-blood urinating in a corner while singing a rude song about pricklebeasts, there were no witnesses. 

She leaned her head back and tasted the air. Most of the things Azdaja slowed her down with were pretty stupid, but she had to admit that community college Tracking and Hunting course came in handy, even if she kept dozing off during the “stealth and concealment” part. 

Konyyl strode along, her acid churner rapidly becoming less-than-comfortably-full, using her superior height to catch updrafts and survey the distant back-streets and flame egresses. She strained for any hint of expensive body wash, the molting pheromones of the latest razor-slim iPrick palmhusk, puppy-hide jacket leather, limited edition Timberdrake shoe chitin, or horn polish made from culled wigglers. 

“Finally!” Azdaja sighed, touching up the last of his jagged bangs. “Okay, you can look at me now. Also, if you’re hunting down that nook-licker who did this to my hair, you should probably use me as a distraction so you can get the jump on him.”

“Of course I know that!” Konyyl said, even though the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. It made some sense. She could take down low-bloods, male or female, in a fair fight, and even held her own against teal types, but this high-born shit-kicker had the full indigo attitude and demonstrated enough raw physical strength in his little cisgender body that he could give her a real jog for her bank account. She didn’t mind a tough fight, but maybe, just maybe, with somebody this important and powerful, she should bend the knee to Azdaja’s fancy brainy plan stuff. 

Of course, she wasn’t about to admit that to him. “Stupid smart-brain sexy jerkface,” she grumbled under her breath, confident that Azdaja couldn’t hear her over the grumbling of her gut. 

After the something-teenth dirty dead end full of empty fermented-grain-blood and congealed piss, Konyyl finally caught the appetizing smell of arrogance-sweat and powdered meteorite nail polish. She wiped the trailing chords of thick drool from her fangs and lips, forgetting that she was holding Azdaja in that hand, and he began flailing and whining about grubsauce stains on his jacket. 

“I’m Urp sorry,” she muttered. That wasn’t important now. Nothing was, except the prey. 

Konyyl grabbed the rail of a flame egress and scrambled up to poke her head over the rooftops. There the target was, the one who had tried to fuck up her moi--her matesprit, the little airpod-wearing high-and-might pencil-thin-horned nook-sucker, the one who had stopped him from getting her food! 

She forced herself not to spring straight at him. For one thing, she wasn’t high enough to land the jump, and then he’d hit her back or start running. He was distracted right now, tapping away at his palm husk like it was the most important thing in the world. Whatever happened to living in the moment? Trolls should appreciate the beauty of the congealed piss and feral lussi fighting in the dirt around them instead of self-medicating with technology. She was totally gonna complain about this to that weak, stupid, not-at-all-sexy alien online later. 

Strategy. Distraction. She had to think. 

“Think, Konyyl, think. You need to...distraction.” Her think pan throbbed with the intensity of effort. Usually she got by with whatever neurons fired in her aggravation sponge or lobe stem. Her fists moved by themselves. Azdaja was whispering about some complicated double-blind pinscir thingy, with his weird head powers and sneaky sneaking. She could barely hear it over her growling innards, but she covered his mouth anyway, so he wouldn’t distract her. She was trying to think about a good distraction, but she was so hungry, and it felt like a gas pain was building up in her chest, and—

That was it! She grinned. You could make a distraction with distracting things! 

She frowned. What was distracting? Her head and stomach hurt so bad. She needed some more food in her skull and ideas in her—no wait, that was wrong.

Her acid tract churned, forcing more sofa parts and animal bones into her acid tract for further digestion. 

Food was distracting. Tasty food was more distracting. Tasty boys were distracting. So were sexy boys, charming boys, charming genteel bronze-blood cowgirls, bright shiny things, Azdaja...

“I have a plan!” Konyyl snarled. 

Azdaja raised his eyebrows.

“Oh shut up and help me.”

She pulled back her arm and took aim, sticking out her long, pointed tongue with the effort of thought.


	10. Chapter 10

Time slowed as Azdaja hurtled through the air. He paused to reflect on his many duplicitous deals and violent crimes. He was not remorseful. (He did feel bad about that rustblood-face act he did on his hive’s talent night, though. He was classier than that and his audience had deserved a bit more respect.)

Azdaja always made sure he wore clean, stylish caterpillar-buttthread underwear when he went out on the town, in case he got hit by a truck and the paramedics had to strip off his clothes, or in case he needed to save his life with an impromptu strip tease, or in case he met somebody that Konyyl really didn’t need to hear about because they had an understanding, after all, and his tentacle was too beautiful not to share around.

He didn’t know what he had done wrong, or what had finally made Konyyl snap. She probably thought she was doing something clever. She was never any good at that. That’s why she needed a guy like him. It was like those blind trolls that had a seeing eye lusus, except he was her thinking brain troll.

As the buildings flew past him, the wind flapping his cloak in a lovely dramatic fashion, with the back of an indigo troll who could rip off his leg and beat him to death with the wet end without even pausing to stop texting on his palmhusk, he realized that he was wearing clean underwear no longer. He tried to prime enough telekinetic energy to blunt the impact, but it was hard to do much when he needed so much force to keep his jacket and hair in shape. 

He’d just die of shame if he broke his neck and had to show up at his funeral with messy hair. He focused the field around his hair tighter and stuck out his arms to brace the landing.

It was convenient, then, that he collided with the high-blood’s shoulders, headfirst. The shielding around his hair absorbed most of the impact, allowing him to involuntarily piledrive the pompous troll to the ground. His horns ground right into the shoulder blades and firmly embedded in the muscle tissue, causing his arms to go limp and his palmhusk to fly into a distant corner under a faded old band poster. 

Azdaja was relieved when they both slammed to the pavement without his spine snapping like a fresh stalk of celery. On top of that, the satisfying clonk of the noble’s head suggested it would be a few minutes before he could get his eyes pointing in the same direction again.

“Watch where you’re going, you low-born oaf!” the indigo prick shouted. 

Maybe Azdaja was wrong. He’d sunk his horns into the troll at near-terminal velocity and this nightmare thought he’d just been bumped into?  
Azdaja started fumbling in his pockets for garroting wire. Four-sided nail file, palmhusk, pocket-sized expandable bucket, papaya-mango artisanal hot sauce, where was the damn thing?

The indigo troll rose to his feet without noticing that he still had Azdaja embedded in his back. He started walking towards his palmhusk, the thing that could alert help if he saw a big, olive troll pounding down after him with a knife and fork and a syringe of meat tenderizer. 

Azdaja tried to grab the troll’s ankles with his psionic energy. It didn’t even slow him down.

Finally, Azdaja found the garroting wire. He reached out both of his, lowered it under the chin—

And the troll broke it with his bare fingers. 

This time, he did stop, and turn around, then frown at the empty air. He looked down.

“Uh, hey there! Sir, my lord,” Azdaja said, blood rushing to his head and sweating bullets. “How would you like to buy this lovely piece of gently used garroting wire?”


	11. Chapter 11

Everything was going according to plan. P-L-N plan. 

The heady rush of intellectual success filled Konyyl’s veins. 

Now that the boring, thinky, pan-straining part was done, she could move on to the fun action. Her stomach roared approval. 

She pulled the rest of her body up the roof, ran across it, crunching a few ventilation towers in the way and grabbing a rat-bird en route as a light appetizer, then plunged off towards the prey with all the strength her gigantic calves and thigh muscles could muster. 

As she drew closer, the Indigo troll was gently tossing Azdaja into the air and catching him, each time by a different limb. The trick was not to get stuck on those horns, and to keep all the weight behind her foot.

When her combined weight and velocity channeled into a combination flying kick and landing, the high blooded troll emitted a pleasing series of loud crunching sounds.

Konyyl caught Azdaja on his fall, spinning his body a few times to discharge some of the momentum. 

“Is he still alive?” Azdaja asked, as soon as he’d caught his breath. 

“Still twitching and *urp* moaning, definitely,” Konyyl said. “Better take care of this before we draw any attention.”

“I was wondering when you’d get around to that,” Azdaja snarked, struggling to his feet and dusting off his jacket. 

Konyyl lifted the still-struggling troll by his broken collar bone and slammed him against the wall hard enough to embed his horns in the mortar. 

“Hang in there for a sec,” Konyyl growled, causing Azdaja to snicker.

“Did I say something funny?” she snapped, turning around to face him.

“Oh, I thought—nevermind,” Azdaja said, covering a grin and shaking his head.

Konyyl gave him an intimidating glare.

“Did you get his palm husk?”

Azdaja raised a carefully shaped eyebrow and pointed. 

“Well? Do I have to do everything around here?” Konyyl grumbled, while the high blood troll made loud wheezes and gurgling noises that might have been interpreted as calls for help. 

Azdaja rolled his eyes and snapped the object over with a whip of psi energy. Konyyl yanked it out of his hand and swallowed it. Just then, her doublewide stomach began vibrating.

“Oh great, he’s got a call coming in,” she groaned. Konyyl thumped her stomach until the noise abated, ending in a window-rattling belch punctuated by a dial tone. 

“Well, now that I’ve made some room,” Konyyl said, smacking her lips, “a little birdie told me that you swagged your hoity-toity ass up and down the aisle just so you could block my matesprit from the meat and cheese table.” 

The troll’s yellow eyes flared with fury, and he managed a louder-than-normal wheeze while his neck muscles throbbed. 

“Shit, I think his neck bones are starting to mend already,” Azdaja said, adjusting his collar nervously. “Better make this quick, babe.” 

Konyyl glared back at him. “What if I wanna take my time?”

“And let his powerful matesprit or some drones come over to kick our asses all the way back to the Beforus? No thank you,” Azdaja said, planting his hands on his hips and making his jacket flap in a defiant manner. 

Konyyl kicked another wall, sending shockwaves and stirring a few bricks loose. “But I wanna take my time with this one! You know they taste best when the anguish bladder gets really active.”

She closed her eyes, clenched her fists, and started stomping. Azdaja was right, dumb annoying smarty pants, they couldn’t let this tightwad high-blood draw attention with cries for help. She shoved her fists into her pockets. 

Every time she went to the buffet, she made sure to stick a few goodies in her pocket for the trip home. It was against the rules, but if any employee was stupid enough to point this out to her, she would bend them into an unnatural shape and maybe take them home too if they looked juicy enough. 

She pulled a broken musical squeezebox out of her pocket. Everyone hated squeezebox music. Some rustbloods even made a career out of playing squeezebox music in neighborhoods after a big party until hungover trolls threw money to get them to stop.

Konyyl opened her eyes with a thunderclap of insight. The high blood had started moaning again, almost clearly enough to form words. 

“I have another idea!” Konyyl shouted.

“Two in one day? Aren’t you afraid you’ll strain your pan or pull a head muscle?” Azdaja snickered.

Konyyl gave him a playful and light-hearted punch in the mouth, holding just enough that it didn’t actually break any more of his teeth or cause a bruise too large for decent ash-based makeup to hide. 

Konyyl pulled out the squeezebox, pressed it nearly flat, and drove it right into the Indigo prick’s mouth. He tried to scream, but only produced a comical saggy note. 

“Shut up!” somebody shouted from a distant window.

“See?” Konyyl said. “Now I can take my time properly.”

Konyyl’s barely-half-full stomach rumbled like a stampede of beefgrubs. She smacked her lips, leaned over, and pressed her still-considerable belly up against the trapped troll’s fractured ribs. He squirmed and wriggled, flinching with pain and belting out a comical tune instead of begging for mercy. She felt his weak pulse through the exposed grey skin of her gut. She pressed closer and closer, tentacle pulsing against the crotch of her pants, feeling the tension and post-digestive gasses rise up inside her. 

“You stopped my matesprit from getting me meat and cheese,” she said, listening as Azdaja’s breathing grew tight and ragged again, certain without looking that his sweat was starting a war with his elaborate hair products and eyeshadow. “Lucky thing I brought some cheese with me.”

Konyyl brought out a shaker of parmesan and raised it up to the puny little indigo troll’s head. 

“Not yet,” Azdaja said, his voice tight with lust.

“Hm?” Konyyl asked. 

“Put some dressing or sauce on first. It’ll stick better.”

“Good point,” Konyyl said. His insistence on making everything just so got annoying when she was doubled over with hunger pangs while he fussed over which type of blue valley salt or marsh salt to use, but he did sometimes know how to make good things (a rather broad category where Konyyl was concerned, generally consisting of “anything that wasn’t dirt or kale”) taste even better.

She poured a bit of tree eyeball oil down on that pretty little haircut, watching as the indigo bitch struggled to raise his arms enough to block it. 

Azdaja strode up to her, pulling a few tiny vials out of his pocket. “Liquid smoke would go nicely, especially around the sight orbs,” he said. “Ooh and I’ve still got some spring-green grub genital shavings and cloudberry-wine-vinager and--“

“Don’t push it,” Konyyl snarled, taking the liquid smoke and shoving the rest of the stuff back into his hand. 

“Not even some of this artisanal grub-infused papaya vinegar dressing?” Azdaja said. 

The indigo troll’s eyes flickered at the prospect, and he squeezeboxed out a complaint that sounded almost like grudging respect.

“Definitely not,” Konyyl growled. Her guts backed her up with an even louder growl. 

She splashed a generous amount of liquid smoke over the prey, then swallowed the bottle.

“Hey!” Azdaja shouted. “That cost thirty—”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Konyyl said, baring every one of her fangs to remind Azdaja that what she really needed right now was raw long pork, and anyone who pressed to hard on her patience was likely to lose some digits. 

Konyyl pressed harder, until she could feel his pulse and breath through her innards, until the pressure on her gastronomic gurgles hit a high point and she burped in his face. She could tell it was a foul-smelling blacked from the way his eyes closed and his lips curled.

Konyyl didn’t exactly unhinge her jaw, but she did stretch the muscles and bones a bit further out of their normal alignment. Azdaja already had a hand pressed against his thrashing bulge. 

Konyyl bared every one of her fangs in all their carnivorous glory, letting the victim drink in her jagged mouth-bones and long, lashing tongue. She bent over him, closer and closer, gnashing her teeth, letting her drool squirt and slip all over his nice hair and precious makeup and expensive clothing. 

She let out a few more small burps, but mostly they were gas released by the returning hunger. She had a lot more room left in there, and right now she needed good protein a lot more than roughage, vitamins, or minerals. 

Konyyl wiped her tongue across his face, wiping away all but the most stubborn of his makeup and skin care products. One of them was a strong cucumber-mint thing that smelled great and tasted even better. She scraped her taste buds along his coat, down the sides of his pants, brushing his wrists and ankles, and sucked the grub-butter product out of his long locks and sampled the polish right off his horns.

A mild stab of hunger ran through her. Enough with the five-play. It was time to eat.

She stretched her mouth wide enough that her fangs wouldn’t brush his indigo-flushed skin unless he struggled too much. Instead of levering his horns free from the wall, she just ripped out the surrounding section of wall along with him. 

Konyyl flipped the nobleman upside-down to keep him disoriented. He had enough broken bones that he shouldn’t put up much of a fight, but it didn’t hurt to play things safe. He cried out with desperate squeezebox oscillations, and the first shake of parmesan landed on her waiting tongue. She stretched it up to wrap around his neck and tightened, lowering the flow of oxygen into his body without risking him losing consciousness.

She tightened her mouth and closed her lips over his neck, bathing his face in her gurgling saliva. He tasted good. The tree eyeball oil had been a good idea. She sucked down past his shoulders and weakly struggling arms to the narrow, manly hips, her cheeks bulging more and more.

Konyyl let gravity do the work of plunging him further in, chewing the ass cheeks, suppressing the gag reflex as his horns briefly caught in her throat, then sucking the legs down and swallowing up to the waist with another surge of frothing pre-digestive slobber. 

She took a moment to pluck off the shiny black shoes before sucking him down. The neck bulge, bigger than both her breasts put together, gave her a little trouble, but she forced him down.

The still-living troll slammed into her innards with a huge, satisfying glorp. She’d already been primed with more stomach acids by the rising appetite and oral stimulation. She could feel him kicking and clawing at her stomach wall, but the throbs of pain only enhanced her excitement, and the slurry of motor oil and heavy metals in her acid pump were clearly slowing him down. 

Konyyl turned around and pinched Azdaja’s coat collar between two fingers, lifting him up to her face. Even with all she’d eaten at the buffet, this still-flailing high-blood had distended her gut enough that the tight shirt was chafing at her underboob area. 

“How do you BRAAAAWP like that, little man?”

“Bedroom, ASAP,” Azdaja gasped.


	12. Chapter 12

Konyyl rested one hand on Azdaja’s shoulder as she walked down the alley. She wouldn’t admit it, but this meal was giving her a lot more trouble than she’d bargained for, and she needed his support. 

Her beautiful yellow eyes were glazed over with a familiar food-high. 

“Oof, I think, OOOAAARRP,” Konyyl’s words were cut off by a particularly foul belch, smelling of hot iron and spoiled grease. 

“That would be a first,” Azdaja quipped. He couldn’t have stopped himself for a gem-studded antique clock. 

Azdaja braced for a stream of profanity or a hip-check at head height that would send him bouncing off the nearest wall. Neither happened.

A solitary troll walking his lusus paused to stare at Konyyl. She was hunched over as if about to take a dump. Her knees were knocking together, greenish sweat rolling down her face and darkening the shirt stretched over her rumble spheres, cascading down her distended and quivering midsection. 

Something crunched. Her belly shifted to the left and snapped back. Konyyl stumbled, bracing a hand on Azdaja’s horns. Her veins threatened to pop out of her shifting muscles as every part of her from her feet to her face tightened with stress.

“Nothing’s wrong!” Konyyl shouted at him.

“I didn’t say any—” Azdaja began in a conciliatory tone--

“I’m f-fine! Shut up!” Konyyl roared. She braced one hand against the concrete wall and dug her claws into it, forming cracks. “I’m just, just leaning here because it looks cool!” 

She screwed up her beady yellow eyes, drew back her free fist, and punched herself right in the gut. There was a faint noise of distress, immediately followed by Konyyl snarling through gritted fangs.

“Fuck, my stomach! Ow!” 

“Here? Now?” Azdaja asked, waggling his eyebrows. 

Azdaja hadn’t seen her free hand move at all. It was just there, suddenly, using just enough pressure to completely cut off his airflow without actually damaging his neck bones or rupturing any blood vessels. 

“Hah-eeeeuuwp ha, bone bulge face. If you’re OW done being Urp funny, just…get me some h-h—” She sunk a few inches closer to the ground, eyes shut tight. Her stomach was jiggling more than ever, even though she was standing (squatting) still. It didn’t move this much when she went jogging after a beer-chugging contest. 

Azdaja tried to ask “get you what?” but that would require drawing air. Instead he gestured helplessly and raised his eyebrows. 

“Get help,” she panted. “Pepto bismol, ginger ale, parsley…” she dropped Azdaja and bent over on her, hands and knees, as a bulge traveled up her throat, then forcibly swallowed it back. 

“He’s still fighting,” she gasped out. She struggled upright again, jumped up, and belly flopped onto the cold pavement. 

Azdaja leaned over and put his ear to her guts. There was a stream of muffled cursing, a lot of unpleasant thumping noises, and—

Fourteen feet of back ally scenery sailed past Azdaja before a garbage can absorbed his momentum. He spent the next minute listening to the ringing in his hear-ducts, processing the fact that the highblood had punched him across the street from inside Konyyl’s stomach, and struggling to wrench his horns free from the crumpled metal. 

He ran over to his matesprit, fumbling in his jacket for something, anything, that could expedite her digestion of the troublesome noble. He managed to fish out some Alternia Seltzer tablets. Konyyl scarfed them without opening the packet. 

“It’s not working fast enough,” Konyyl gasped. “Like, I need help. From you.”

Azdaja was more terrified than he’d ever been. Konyyl didn’t like asking for help. She didn’t even use the word “help” if she could manage it. Maybe this time she’d really bitten off more than she could chew. If that indigo bastard managed to crawl back out of her throat or make enough noise to attract help, then they were both as good as culled, and the same probably held true for everyone in her hive and anyone who’d been seen somewhere near them at some point in time.

“Tell me what to do!” Azdaja said, possibly for the first time in his life outside of sexual role playing. 

“I need you to start hitting me in the stomach,” she groaned.

“I can’t do that to you!” Azdaja said. He liked manipulating and killing people, but he was no common ruffian, and this was his matesprit. There was a term for male trolls that hit women. (That term was stupid, as they usually ended up getting their own arms ripped off and shoved up their cloacas). 

“Do it you buuuraap little bone nook. I need you to hit me with all three ounces of your nerdy little body. Get those noodle arms and skinny legs in gear and pummel this pompous prick!” 

Azdaja usually fought with telekinesis, but he assumed what he thought might be a fighting pose, guard raised, legs in a strong stance. It went again all his instincts to pummel his partner, but she was demanding it from him, and really he was just aiming for the noble who stubbornly refused to die inside her acid pump. 

He punched at her gut. She burped in his face and groaned.

“Come on, I’ve seen rust-blooded grubs that could hit harder than you!”

He backed up, got a running start, and executed a very dramatic looking flying jump kick. If you had to do something, you might as well do it well. 

“What the hive is going on here?” somebody shouted in the no-longer-abandoned back ally, running towards him with their palm husk in hand.

“Shit,” Azdaja said.


	13. Chapter 13

“Are you beating up a green troll?” the stranger said. 

Azdaja opened his mouth. His instincts told him to play dumb. Getting an opponent to underestimate you was one strategy to survive.

“What troll?” he said, poker-faced.

Maybe he overestimated just how stupid a regular stupid person would act. 

The stranger was buff and beefy, for a cis male, but more of the body-builder type than the deceptive roundness of a true power-house. It didn’t matter that much, because either phenotype would have enough raw strength to paint the street yellow with him. One horn was long and thin, the other one completely broken off, probably in a gang fight. His leather jacket was burgundy red and he stank of sour bug juice. He leveled Azdaja with a penetrating stare.

Azdaja tried to counter with an even more penetrating stare and a calculated eyebrow raise. 

“That troll,” he grumbled, pointing to Konyyl, who was thumping the pavement and gripping her distended acid-pump with one hand. Her eyes rolled back into her head. 

“Oh, her?” Azdaja forced himself to keep his face blank, leaned back, and punched her stomach as hard as he could. 

“You’re attacking a green? Without any backup? You’re not even using your psychic powers?” the red troll said with mounting disbelief.

Azdaja brushed back his hair. “Why do you ask?” 

“N-nothing, that’s just, uh, really hot.” He chuckled and brushed some dead leaves from his own scraggly unconditioned hair.

“You think so, huh?” Azdaja asked. He was faithful to his matesprit, but he never turned down somebody trying to let him know how awesome he was. 

“K-kinda? Like, I’m on my way to work now, but, if this isn’t too forward, could I get your number?”

Inspiration struck. He tried to ignore Konyyl writhing on the ground behind him, burping and moaning in pain. If he drew too much attention to her, he might notice the suggestive shape of the bulges along her pale grey midsection. 

“Why don’t you hand me your husk and I’ll type it in,” Azdaja said, hitting this ragamuffin with his third-most winning smile and trying to show no pain or hesitation as he kicked his matesprit in the stomach again.

“Oh sure!” the rube said, handing over his husk quickly and bouncing on the balls of his feet. It was a shame, he did look kind of cute, in a disheveled, low-brow kind of way. 

“Mmmph!” came from Konyyl’s still-quivering belly.

“What was that?” the rust blood asked, standing up straight and looking around, levitating a broken bottle in a defensive position.

“What was what?” Azdaja said, spreading his arms apart and trying to look innocent. 

“I heard something. It sounded like somebody in trouble.”

Oh stars, if he was one of those Low Blood Solidary self-righteous bastards the bangability would go down 100%. (Although maybe a kismesis on the side wouldn’t be too bad.) 

Konyyl tried to cover it up with repeated self-administered gut punches and a rumbling burp he could feel all the way down to his bone-nub, but this time the words “help, I’m high-blood” were clearly audible. 

The stranger’s eyes widened. High bloods were rich and always had powerful allies. He looked around, but he still hadn’t put two and two together. 

“Okay I definitely heard somebody that time.” 

“Where do you think they are?” Azdaja asked, putting on his I’m Taking You Seriously face. 

“Somewhere very close,” the red troll said. He swung the beer bottle around in front of him, gripped it, and levitated up a half-brick. 

This could get ugly fast if he smelled something wrong. In most fights he relied on his cunning plans and either telekinetic power or Konyyl’s brute force to win, but he hadn’t planned for this, and with Konyyl fighting a war in her own digestive tract he couldn’t count on her immediate help. 

The muffled noises rose up even higher. Azdaja willed himself not to look at Konyyl’s struggling belly. He could feel sweat running down the back of his jacket. 

“What exactly was that troll doing when you found her?” the stranger asked, floating up a few more sharp and heavy things. 

Konyyl’s throat bulged again and her jaw muscles clenched. He knew she was fighting to keep things contained. She needed a distraction. So, Azdaja provided the first distraction he could think of.

He leaned inside the red troll’s guard, grinned wickedly, and locked lips with him.

The levitating improvised weapons clattered to the ground. The troll closed his eyes and began sliding his tongue into Azdaja’s cheek. Okay, pretty forward this guy, but he couldn’t exactly blame him. 

It all would have been fine if Konyyl hadn’t, at that moment, let out another Alternia-shaking belch that allowed her captive to sneak out a scream for help and a waving hand.


	14. Chapter 14

“What the...” the troll said. 

Azdaja’s expression turned hard as flint. “Sorry about this.”

He seized on the moment of confusion reached down and flipped the red troll head-first into the cold ground.

At least, that’s how the plan went in his head. What he hadn’t planned for was that, as soon as he reached for this buff troll’s ankle, the man grabbed his own wrist and drove an elbow very hard into Azdaja’s midsection, knocking the air out of him and doubling him over with pain in one efficient strike. 

“I thought this was just some back-alley assassination, but full-grown cannibalism isn’t legal anywhere, or safe,” the troll said, punctuating each word with a carefully placed kick to the ribs. Azdaja focused on trying not to bite through his own lips or piss himself. 

“I saw the blood color on her teeth,” he said, leaning close in and wrapping a hand around Azdaja’s throat, which ironically made his tentacle squirm a little faster, but he’d never admit that. “I bet I’d get two sweeps worth of rent in gratitude from this upper crust bitch if I just cut your accomplice open.” 

Azdaja tried a narrow-beam telekinetic blast, but the red troll countered it easily, and used the leftover force to squeeze Azdaja’s sponge. Purple spots formed at the edge of his vision as his powers failed completely, and the throbbing pain throughout his body was slowly reclaimed by a prickling numbness. With his last conscious moments, he tried to force his drunken limbs into a dramatic pose.


	15. Chapter 15

If the stranger had attacked Konyyl first, Azdaja would have been deader than a lusus-less three-armed candy-red-blood waving a “Fuschia Blood is Bitch Blood” sign at high court during an assassin training session while licking an electric outlet. 

When a new combatant enters the arena, seasoned fighters need time to think, to assess the situation, to prepare a response. This prissy little red-blood gym bunny did a few kicks to make sure that Azdaja wasn’t fighting back any more, still focusing his telekinetic powers on Azdaja’s head. He had to reach in to his pockets to pull out a knife and remove it from his sheath before he could even aim it. To an outsider, these movements all would happened in very little time at all. 

Konyyl didn’t need time like that. 

Her fists moved by themselves.

She had broken most of the bones in his dominant hand before she could fully focus her eyes. Hope had given the captive in her acid trap a second wind and he was fighting harder than ever. 

Fortunately, this was also when the Alternia Seltzer had started to really kick in. 

She broke the troll’s arm and collar bone, and then took her second hand away from her stomach to twist his legs into a little pretzel shape, with many crunchy noises and entertaining screams. 

Needless to say, after this long pumping in fresh digestive juices without any roughage or carbs to round things out, she was feeling a little bit peckish.

Konyyl didn’t really have an opportunity to savor this meal, but she’d always been more of a stuff and scarf person than a sip and savor gal. She crammed his head in, not minding the one horn as it poked into her throat, able to suppress her gag reflex until it was pushed past the point of discomfort. Her jaw unfolded to accommodate his broad shoulders, although her teeth still scraped tasty ribbons of skin and muscle tissue off his back and abs. Although she hadn’t planned it this way, the new bulk entering her stomach obstructed her captive’s latest escape attempt. The mass she swallowed back, from tight ass to thrice-broken legs, also restricted his movements and gave him less opportunities to take a swing at her other internal organs. 

With the pressure on his nervous system relaxed, Azdaja could regain consciousness and struggle upright. He took a look at her gut, churning with two entire trolls and a bit of liquid leftovers from the buffet, too big for him to even wrap his arms halfway around it’s circumference, and let out a little moan.

“Oh stars, I’m gonna have to roll you home tonight, won’t I?”

Konyyl opened her mouth to answer, but all that came out was a burp loud enough to knock her head back and leave a ringing in her ears.

Azdaja stuck a hand down his pants and braced against her with the other arm, panting for breath and feeling the vibrations of digestion travel up his arm.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get steamy.

Azdaja needed a lot of lubricant to squeeze her into the elevator, but eventually she fit. Her belly had started out the day a good eight feet wide. Now it was an average of ten feet from one end to the other, although it shifted and jostled a lot, changing it’s shape with the riotous churn of digestive juices and the flailing struggles of a not-quite-dead highblood prick. 

“BRAAWP,” she said, noticing the way it made her matesprit squirm. She had to respect this indigo dude for being so hardcore, although it was easier when you had high-caste strength, endurance, and healing technology. Then again, maybe it was just the food high making her think that way. She was so stuffed she was letting her brain do the thinking for her. Was that right?

The forest green and clown purple room spun around her as tender Azdaja rolled her along with the most gentle of pressure. She opened her mouth for another Alternia-shattering belch, but this time it didn’t come, just a slight increase in pressure and gastronomic pain. 

Konyyl tried to shrug, although it was difficult with her ham-shaped arm-fat engulfing her arm and shoulder muscles. She was used to a little pain, and it didn’t exactly kill her excitement, whether it was some rust-blood shanking her in the torso or an upset tummy from competing in the IHOG culling-prevention charity-benefit grubcake-eating contest. 

Azdaja grabbed a farming implement to lever her onto their lake-like concuspit platform. 

Konyyl grabbed the circumference of her gut and shook it, knowing that it work Azdaja up even more. “Hey egghead, how about a tummy rub?”

Azdaja pulled of his jacket, hung it up, then walked over to her, rolled up his shirt, and presented his completely flat tummy to her.

“I meant me, dumbass dork,” Konyyl grumbled. She didn’t need his annoying clever-boy jokes right now. She needed somebody to get her a bucket and milk her shame-globes like a pregnant hoofbeast. She felt the meal churning and gurgling inside her. The bones and bits of horn always gave her a bit of trouble. 

Azdaja waggled his eyebrows, peeled off his shirt, and placed his nimble fingers right on the pale grey expanse of her distended stomach. 

Konyyl stretched out and relaxed. She could feel her own tentacle lashing around, but it’s movements where slowed by her own bloated stupefaction. For the briefest sliver of time, she wasn’t hungry. She just wanted Azdaja to heat her up, work her over, and fuck her good. 

Those tender, careful hands dug into the fluctuating sides of her globe, working the skin and relaxing the muscles. She curled her toes and gripped the posters of the double-female-sized bed, purring in delight. 

Okay, so maybe he was a nerd, but he did a great job working over her huge belly, pressing through the layers of protective fat, kneading tension out of the powerful muscles, and above all, stimulating her digestion to even greater heights. 

She could feel the fight in her gullet dying down. That was strangely disappointing. She would have expected a bigger final salvo from one of the noble born. Maybe there was less to caste differences than people thought, although she’d never voice such a sentiment in a public place, of course. They all had different skills, like her talent for unrelenting mindless violence, and Azdaja’s ability to levitate food, fondle her so expertly that she wanted to scream out with delight, and during the lean times to shop his tender little ass out to any gym bunny who wanted a quick slap-and-tickle. The rusty bastards could commune with the dead, and she could bring her fists down so hard on some troll’s head that from then on, if he managed to survive the encounter, he’d have to drop his trousers to say hello. 

Certainly, the noble trolls didn’t taste that much better than the ordinary street scum she tossed back like deep fried pork rinds. 

She pulled out the drawer right next to her bed, fumbled around, and grabbed a growler of light fermented hop-blood. The food high was fading and she wanted another buzz to mix it up tonight. She bit off the top, knowing her digestive tract could easily handle a few plastic shards, chugged it, then threw it to shatter on the far-off wall. Azdaja could hire some rust kid to clean it up later.

Azdaja’s magical fingers spread across the sides of her girth, patting down the area where her side-rolls would be evident when she was less packed tight. He drummed his fingertips along her belly, making the gentle resonance against the fluid-filled slurry. Honestly, this was one of the big reasons why she hadn’t murdered or eaten him a long time ago. That and his stupid, annoying, complicated plans actually worked a lot of the time. And he was funny, and pretty cute for a male, and well…a lot of things.

Konyyl seized his hands in her iron grip and lifted them slower. He kept his fingers moving down the lower curve of her belly, and she released them right at the button of her pants. 

He knew what to do.


	17. Chapter 17

Azdaja needed a lot of lubricant to squeeze her into the elevator, but eventually she fit. Her belly had started out the day a good eight feet wide. Now it was an average of ten feet from one end to the other, although it shifted and jostled a lot, changing it’s shape with the riotous churn of digestive juices and the flailing struggles of a not-quite-dead highblood prick. 

“BRAAWP,” she said, noticing the way it made her matesprit squirm. She had to respect this indigo dude for being so hardcore, although it was easier when you had high-caste strength, endurance, and healing technology. Then again, maybe it was just the food high making her think that way. She was so stuffed she was letting her brain do the thinking for her. Was that right?

The forest green and clown purple room spun around her as tender Azdaja rolled her along with the most gentle of pressure. She opened her mouth for another Alternia-shattering belch, but this time it didn’t come, just a slight increase in pressure and gastronomic pain. 

Konyyl tried to shrug, although it was difficult with her ham-shaped arm-fat engulfing her arm and shoulder muscles. She was used to a little pain, and it didn’t exactly kill her excitement, whether it was some rust-blood shanking her in the torso or an upset tummy from competing in the IHOG culling-prevention charity-benefit grubcake-eating contest. 

Azdaja grabbed a farming implement to lever her onto their lake-like concuspit platform. 

Konyyl grabbed the circumference of her gut and shook it, knowing that it work Azdaja up even more. “Hey egghead, how about a tummy rub?”

Azdaja pulled of his jacket, hung it up, then walked over to her, rolled up his shirt, and presented his completely flat tummy to her.

“I meant me, dumbass dork,” Konyyl grumbled. She didn’t need his annoying clever-boy jokes right now. She needed somebody to get her a bucket and milk her shame-globes like a pregnant hoofbeast. She felt the meal churning and gurgling inside her. The bones and bits of horn always gave her a bit of trouble. 

Azdaja waggled his eyebrows, peeled off his shirt, and placed his nimble fingers right on the pale grey expanse of her distended stomach. 

Konyyl stretched out and relaxed. She could feel her own tentacle lashing around, but it’s movements where slowed by her own bloated stupefaction. For the briefest sliver of time, she wasn’t hungry. She just wanted Azdaja to heat her up, work her over, and fuck her good. 

Those tender, careful hands dug into the fluctuating sides of her globe, working the skin and relaxing the muscles. She curled her toes and gripped the posters of the double-female-sized bed, purring in delight. 

Okay, so maybe he was a nerd, but he did a great job working over her huge belly, pressing through the layers of protective fat, kneading tension out of the powerful muscles, and above all, stimulating her digestion to even greater heights. 

She could feel the fight in her gullet dying down. That was strangely disappointing. She would have expected a bigger final salvo from one of the noble born. Maybe there was less to caste differences than people thought, although she’d never voice such a sentiment in a public place, of course. They all had different skills, like her talent for unrelenting mindless violence, and Azdaja’s ability to levitate food, fondle her so expertly that she wanted to scream out with delight, and during the lean times to shop his tender little ass out to any gym bunny who wanted a quick slap-and-tickle. The rusty bastards could commune with the dead, and she could bring her fists down so hard on some troll’s head that from then on, if he managed to survive the encounter, he’d have to drop his trousers to say hello. 

Certainly, the noble trolls didn’t taste that much better than the ordinary street scum she tossed back like deep fried pork rinds. 

She pulled out the drawer right next to her bed, fumbled around, and grabbed a growler of light fermented hop-blood. The food high was fading and she wanted another buzz to mix it up tonight. She bit off the top, knowing her digestive tract could easily handle a few plastic shards, chugged it, then threw it to shatter on the far-off wall. Azdaja could hire some rust kid to clean it up later.

Azdaja’s magical fingers spread across the sides of her girth, patting down the area where her side-rolls would be evident when she was less packed tight. He drummed his fingertips along her belly, making the gentle resonance against the fluid-filled slurry. Honestly, this was one of the big reasons why she hadn’t murdered or eaten him a long time ago. That and his stupid, annoying, complicated   
plans actually worked a lot of the time. And he was funny, and pretty cute for a male, and well…a lot of things.

Konyyl seized his hands in her iron grip and lifted them slower. He kept his fingers moving down the lower curve of her belly, and she released them right at the button of her pants. 

He knew what to do.


	18. Chapter 18

Azdaja unzipped Konyyl’s pants like a 12th Perigree’s Eve present. Her shame globes were throbbing and swollen. Her tentacle was rising up like a hostile danger noodle. 

Azdaja restrained the urge to wrap his lips around it. That was what buckets were for, and anyway, he liked to pace things properly. 

He rubbed his face up in Konyyl’s gloriously globular gut. Of course, females needed bigger meals for their bigger bodies, and they were a lot more omnivorous than trolls like him, but still, it was an intoxicating contrast.

A cloud of discomfort crossed over Konyyl’s otherwise placid face. She reached down and thumped her chest a few times, then added her fingers to the ones already massaging her stomach. He didn’t need to hear her tummy gurgles, although those were tremendous. He could feel them running up his arms and down his spine. 

She closed one eye, then the other, and began to tremble. He was about to ask if she was okay when she opened up her fang-filled maw.

Konyyl let loose with the loudest burp he’d heard in a long time. 

It was followed immediately by sharp pain and a ringing in his noiseholes. It also brought up a horn which bounced off the ceiling and padded harmlessly onto the floor. The overall aroma that blasted out at him was reminiscent of recent battlefields, fermentation vats, and unusual chemical factories. 

Konyyl grinned wickedly in the way that he loved. 

“Hey, shrimp? I just freed up some room. Are your manicured fingers to delicate to grab me a little snack before I have to chew through the cushions?” 

“Of course not, my muscular armored car in troll form,” Azdaja said, matching her tone. “It is my sworn honor to satisfy your every desire.” 

She burped again, and he dashed off to the thermal hull for some roasted red bugs. As he listened to her innards rumble from the next room, he also grabbed that shuttle chassis he’d been saving for an associate’s art project. The guy didn’t really need it, and he was just a little bit afraid that his matesprit might start eating the furniture if he let her get bored. With added presence of mind, he grabbed a couple of buckets, although he might need a third one if she was feeling particularly frisky or shed a lot of water weight. 

As soon as he got back within reach of her, Konyyl picked him up by the neck and the food and buckets clattered to the floor.


End file.
